Why aren’t they fighting?
Why aren’t they territorial?
Because this isn’t ownership.
It’s choice.
And she hasn’t made hers yet.
Kane glances at me as we walk toward the counter.
“You’re not backing down.”
“Not a chance.”
“Good.”
“Same to you.”
We bump fists.
Brotherhood intact.
Competition alive.
And somewhere across campus, Stella Cortez is probably pacing, wondering how she became the center of a war no one is actually waging.
Good.
Let her wonder.
Because this time?
I’m not freezing.
I’m playing to win.
Apparently transferring schools doesn't get you out of initiation.
I should've known that.
The locker room smells like sweat, deodorant, and whatever cheap cologne the freshmen drown themselves in before parties.
Kane leans against the lockers, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with the kind of amusement that means he's already agreed to whatever stupidity is about to happen.
"Technically," Beal says, tossing a duffel bag at me, "you're not a freshie."
I catch it.
"Correct."
"But," another guy adds, grinning, "you're still new to the brotherhood."
Kane shrugs.
"Rules are rules."
I unzip the bag.
